


there she was like double cherry pie

by awakeanddreaming



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: A little bit of fluff, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, tessa can’t cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 02:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awakeanddreaming/pseuds/awakeanddreaming
Summary: Tessa is upset when her dinner plans aren’t turning out the way she wants. Scott wants to show her how they can have some fun in the kitchen.OrScott always knows what he’s doing when it comes to the ice.





	there she was like double cherry pie

**Author's Note:**

> Waves shyly. 
> 
> Back in December I said I don’t know if I can write smut, but I’ll try. Now here I am the first week of March with over 3k of pure porn. I blame (thank) the influence of the writers guild for this. 
> 
> This is a little bit fluffy, but mostly smutty and unless you consider Tessa can’t cook a plot point than there really is zero plot here. 
> 
> I would like to thank the writers guild, especially only_because3, falsettodrop, pinkgerberdaisies, restlessvirtue (thanks for the summary) and iwantthemtostay for looking this over and convincing me that I can write semi decent smut. 
> 
> Title from the song “Sex and Candy”.

“I’ve decided to become a vegetarian,” she announces as soon as he’s through the doorway to the kitchen. 

He raises his eyebrows and his eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him. Tessa is wearing an apron, standing at the middle of the island in her normally pristine kitchen, cookbook flipped open, chopped veggies, a pot with brown rice stuck to the bottom, an empty can of some sort of bean, and various different containers of spices, ketchup and mustard littering the counter, while she attempts to scrape something brown and lumpy out of little used food processor. 

“Why?” he asks, while flipping to the cover of the cookbook to read  _ The Easy Vegetarian Kitchen.  _

Tessa puts down the spatula she’s been using and looks up at him. She lets out a long puff of air through her nose. “Well, I have at least decided that I’m only going to cook vegetarian food.” 

“Have you also decided you hate me?” he says, examining the mush inside the food processor. 

“No, I am doing this because I love you,” she pouts. “You can’t make someone sick with under cooked vegetables.” 

“That was only once,” he tries to keep his tone light, like spending twelve hours carving a path between the bedroom and the bathroom after she had tried to make chicken cacciatore was no big deal. 

She raises a single brow at him. 

“Maybe  _ twice.”  _

She groans, loudly, the sound filling the quiet kitchen, bouncing around off the clean white cupboards, as she leans her head down on the counter top. “That’s twice too many.” 

He walks around the island to pull her into his arms, giving her a gentle tug until she lifts her head up and shrugs into his embrace. He presses his lips to the top of her head. 

“You know, you can’t make me sick by under cooking steak. All you have to do is fry it a bit on both sides and you’re good to go. Rare steak is a thing T.” 

She sighs and buries her head into his chest. He feels her breath—warm—through the thin cotton of his t-shirt as she mumbles something into the fabric. 

“Hmm, I didn’t catch that, T.” 

She lifts her head up slightly and meets his eyes, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout that he would call adorable, but he knows he’d be yelled at for voicing this aloud.  _ I’m upset Scott, it’s not cute.  _

“I would probably overcook it,” she sighs. “Then we’d be eating rubber.” 

He looks at the mess in the food processor and grimaces, “Rubber might be more edible than that...uh, what is that anyways?” 

“It’s supposed to be veggie burgers, but they aren’t sticking together properly.” 

“Why? Why would you do that to me, kiddo?” he half-laughs but then catches the stormy look in her eyes, as the greens darken and blues become more prominent and the laugh dies in his throat. He kisses her on the head again, lightly. 

She extricates herself from the circle of his arms and starts tossing things from the counter into the trash. “I give up, just order Skip the Dishes. I don’t know why I bothered spending so much on this stupid kitchen.” 

He chuckles and a small smile cracks across his face because even though he knows she is genuinely frustrated with herself for her lack of skills in the kitchen—Tessa Virtue is never not the best at whatever she sets out to do—he loves the determination she’s brought to trying to master something that isn’t eggs (or from a box with very specific instructions).

As he orders their dinner she cleans the mess from her earlier attempt. He watches her features slip into a frown as she violently scrapes burnt on rice from the bottom of the pot into the compost bin. 

“You know I love you, right? In sickness and in health, even if it’s your cooking making me sick...you know whatever saying that is. I love you no matter what.” 

“Marriage vows Scott, those are marriage vows,” she rolls her eyes at him.    
  
“Tess, you don’t always have to be the best at everything, you know that right?” he says, putting his phone down on the now clean counter.    
  
The look she tosses him says exactly what he knew it would,  _ do you even know me?  _ Her eyes are wide and fierce, he can feel their heat boring through him, and though her eyes burn her expression is cold and stony. She raises a single eyebrow in question,  _ seriously? _   
  
“You, babe, are so good, the best even, at so many other things. Like kitchen dance parties. You are the best at kitchen dance parties.”    
  
She snorts at that and he can see her face thaw as a slow smile stretches across her lips, pushes up her cheeks, crinkling the skin around her eyes. She puts a hand on her hip and shakes her head at him in that exasperated but so full of love way that she does. 

  
“And,” he begins, taking a step into her space, “I know something that you are very good at, that we haven’t tried in the kitchen yet...”

He leans forward to capture her lips with his, stopping her protest before it even leaves her mouth. Her hand automatically comes up to thread through the hair on the back of his neck as she allows herself to be lead into his kiss. 

When she finally pulls back, lips swollen, red,and wet she says, “Scott, food’s going to be here soon—we can’t.” 

“Food won’t be here for a half hour, there are plenty of things we can try before it gets here.”

He puts a hand low on her hip, his thumb dipping under the waistband of her leggings as he rubs along the curve of her hip bone. He wants to show her how little he cares that she will never be as at ease in the kitchen as she is on the ice, or in a boardroom, or even fidgeting in front of a camera lens. That half the meals she tries are a mix of inedible, tasteless, undercooked or burnt. That she’ll never again host a thanksgiving dinner for their families unless they want to risk an undercooked bird and mashed potatoes that could double as industrial paste. He doesn’t care, and he’ll continue to be her culinary guinea pig (unless it’s vegetarian) for as long as she’ll have him. It’s all worth it to see how her face lights up the times she does get it right, that glow of pride when things turn out just the way she wants—like nailing an element after months of practice. Even more worth it just to get to come home to her, to stand in this kitchen that smells faintly of black beans, burnt rice, and ketchup. 

“Scott, we shouldn’t” she whines, but is entirely unconvincing as she leans into his touch. He feels her weight push against his hand. 

His hand slides under the tight elastic of her pants, his palm coming to rest along the bare skin of her hip, his fingers splayed under the tight material. He leans back into her, using his nose to nudge her chin, so that she lifts it—exposing her neck to his lips. He hums as he kisses the length of it, stopping to suck a mark into her pulse point. 

“So,” he says against the skin of her throat, “what do you think? We can practice all the amazing things that you CAN do, right here in the kitchen. Or I can just show you how great this room can be.” 

He slips his hand down so that he is grabbing at the flesh of her ass under her pants, and her yes comes out as a sustained exhale, the sound getting caught up in her throat. He smiles and pulls her in so that her pelvis is flush against his. 

She rolls her hips a little, creating some friction between them and catches his bottom lip between her own when he looks up to meet her eyes. Her fingers thread through his hair—it’s just starting to get to her favourite length again after he had cut it in the heat of the summer. She pulls and scratches at his scalp and he would gladly grow his hair out a thousand times over for her, for this. 

He moans against her lips and she pulls away just a few centimeters to say, “When dinner gets here, you’re answering the door.” 

He started this, but he finds he’d agree to anything she said as one of her hands falls from his hair and drags along his chest. Dipping under his shirt she runs the backs of her nails over hard muscle. 

“Take this off,” she says, tugging uselessly at his shirt. Removing his hands from her, he does as she’s asked. 

“Your turn,” is his reply, as he steps back into her space, lifting her easily into the island counter behind her. 

She lifts her arms and waits, with a smile. It’s his second favourite smile, after the soft one that is mostly just a brightening of her eyes and a slight twitch of her lips that she saves just for him. That one is usually reserved for first thing in the morning, when he wakes her gently with coffee and the softest of kisses, her guard down. That vulnerable smile, the one that says _ you’re all I could ever want  _ and  _ I love you _ is his favourite. But this smile is definitely a close second. This smile is all temptress and princess, vixen and virgin wrapped in one. 

She bites her lip and cocks her head to the side, arms still in the air as he slides his hands up her sides, slowly peeling her shirt away as they go. 

“You know—” she starts, right before he lifts her shirt over her head and she is cut off by the fabric around her face for a moment. “I can’t believe we’ve never fucked in the kitchen.” 

“It’s a travesty,” he says, tossing her shirt somewhere on the floor near his own. 

“Tragedy,” she says, arching her back, leaning, chest out, hands behind her flat against the counter top. 

“Very tragic,” he says, taking one of her already pert nipples into his mouth, fulfilling her unspoken request. Quickly pulling back away he lets the breath that accompanies his next words ghost over her breast. “Almost as tragic as the  _ veggie  _ burgers you wanted to make me eat.” 

She wraps her legs around his ass, pulling him into her, her hands finding his hair again guiding him over to the opposite breast. He swirls his tongue around this nipple, teasing. 

She pulls lightly at his hair, and his hand finds purchase along the underside of her other breast, his thumb sweeping up to lightly caress her nipple. 

“Scott,” she hums, needy, as he kisses his way back up he chest, scraping his teeth along her sternum.

She pulls him back up to her, and meets his lips with her own, and he captures her contented sigh on his tongue as he uses it to part her lips. She tilts her head slightly, slanting her lips perfectly against his as she sucks his bottom lip between her teeth. He can feel his cock twitch under the suddenly too tight material of his boxers and pants. 

She wraps her arms around his neck and tightens her hold on him with her legs. Her heels dig into the backs of his thighs and she presses him firmly against her center. He groans at the friction she creates against him, where he’s already hard and pressed between their bodies, as she shifts herself closer to him, the kiss becoming messy—all tongue and teeth and abandon. 

His hands find their way back to the top of her leggings and he begins to roll them down. She seems to get the idea and lifts herself off the counter, but is reluctant to unwrap her body from his to allow him to slide her pants passed her upper thighs. He breaks their kiss and shakes himself out of her embrace so that he can get her pants and underwear the rest of the way off. 

“I have an idea, wait there.” he says, taking a step further away from where she remains, now fully naked, on the edge of the kitchen island. 

She leans up on one elbow, eyebrow raised in question,  _ where am I going to go?  _ He smiles at her and retreats towards the fridge. 

“No. Scott...we are not using food...on my body. No.” 

“Tess—“ 

“No. I don’t want to be all sticky.”

He laughs at that, a big laugh that shakes his body, and earns him a glare from her, where she is propped up on both her elbows now, still on the counter, entirely naked.  _ This,  _ he thinks,  _ is a much better use of the kitchen.  _

“T, baby, sex is sticky.” 

“No food,” she says again, a little more forceful. 

“No food,” he repeats, turning away from her to open the door to the freezer. 

He grabs what he needs and tucks it away in the palm of his hand. It’s cold against his skin, already beginning to melt and drip down his wrist, and he fights the urge to open his palm. 

“Scott,” Tessa’s eyes widen, “what are you doing?”

“Just lay back.” 

She shakes her head. 

“Please,” he says, nudging her shoulder, wearing his best smile. 

She does, but not without a long drawn out sigh. He settles himself between her legs, which are still dangling over the edge of the countertop--he worries that she might lose feeling in her feet soon, with the way they are hanging, but she doesn’t complain. 

He lowers his hand to hover over her stomach, and knows that she can feel the chill radiating out of it, by the goosebumps forming on her skin. He slowly uncurls each finger and drops two ice cubes a few inches above her belly button. 

She shivers involuntarily and he watches as her skin prickles and the baby fine hairs on her body stand up on end. 

She moans and whines simultaneously, as she breathes out his name. The sound that comes out is both annoyed and aroused and he smirks. 

“Don’t like the cold, T?” 

She doesn’t answer and he takes one of the cubes and draws it up her chest through the valley of her breasts, while the second cube, melting against the heat of her flesh slides into the dip of her bellybutton, leaving a shining trail of water in its wake. 

He takes the ice in his hand and uses it to circle her nipples, first the right, watching as it hardens and the skin around it prickles with the cold. Then as he moves the ice cube to the left—already half melted—he sucks her right nipple into his mouth, soothing it with his tongue. She moans and lifts her back up off the counter, pushing herself further into his mouth. 

When the ice is little more than a shard he lets it go, watching it slide down the small curve of her breast, down the line of her ribs and onto the counter. He then lavishes the left breast with the same attention he had the right, heating it back up while she tangles her fingers in his hair. 

While his mouth is busy at her chest, working kisses along the line of her collar bone, his hand finds the remaining bit of ice that had slipped into her belly button—cold water now pooling there, and her the metal of her piercing cold against the pads of his fingers. He takes the thin sliver of ice and drags it over her skin, down, down, down, until he hears her squeal when he pushes the ice against her clit. 

She squirms underneath him and he catches a sharp inhale, can feel the expansion of her ribs underneath his lips. He smiles against her skin before pulling back to look at her, laid out naked and breathless against the cool dark surface of the countertop. Her chest and abs glisten, wet, shining under the overhead lighting. Her cheeks are red, and her eyes are dark and glassy, as she breathes steadily to try and come back to herself. 

“Scott, it’s cold,” she whines, pressing herself into his hand, where he still holds the tiniest bit of remaining ice, cold water dripping through her folds and mixing with the warmth of where he can already feel her, soaked. 

“Need me to warm it up?” he asks with a smirk. 

She responds by circling in hips and pressing herself harder into his hand. 

He kisses her once on the mouth, long and hard, his tongue dipping into her mouth just briefly, before pulling back away to trail his lips down her body. Slowly, enjoying the feeling of her soft skin, speckled with goose bumps, against his lips. She lets out a long, low moan when he gets close to where she wants him and he can feel the sound vibrating through her. 

Once he finally gets there, he sucks her clit into his mouth, pulling in what little is left of the ice before swirling it around with his tongue. Repeating the motion until it has dissolved into nothingness. He then licks through her folds and along her opening, tasting a mixture of her and the ice cold water that had dripped down her. It makes him think of the rink, and that sharp smell and taste of  _ cold _ , and for a brief moment he imagines doing this on the ice. Her pressed up against the boards, him on his knees sucking her into his mouth while the ice beneath him melts and soaks through the fabric of his track pants. 

She lifts her hips up off the cool hard surface of the counter, canting into his mouth so he presses one hand low on her stomach, to hold her down, while the other climbs up her inner thigh to meet his mouth at the apex of her thighs. She whimpers as he teases a finger around her opening, flicking his tongue against her clit. He pushes two fingers inside her, her wetness dripping down his knuckles as he feels her abs tense under his other palm. 

He lifts his head up and watches her as her eyes flutter shut and her lips part. Her hands finding purchase in his hair again, grabbing and pulling, as he drags his teeth over her, feeling her legs tremble and muscles flutter as she gets closer to release. He crooks his fingers and presses up at the same time he pressed the flat of his palm down low on her stomach and he can just feel his own fingers where they are inside of her through the walls of her abdomen. 

She lets out a guttural sound, somewhere between a cry and a desperate gasp for air, followed by his name, and “Please. God. Yes.” 

He can feel her inner muscles contract around his fingers, her thighs tremble and tighten around his head, and she comes, crashing like a wave against his mouth and hands. 

He withdraws his fingers from inside her, but keeps lapping at her cunt while she comes down from her orgasm. Her breathing is just starting to slow back to normal as she untangles her fingers from his hair and brings them up to rest over her head on the counter. 

“Take. Off. Your. Pants,” she manages to get out between breaths. 

He is quick to oblige, shucking off his pants and boxers and kicking them off to the side. 

“You’re right,” she begins, “I think I love the kitchen again...now come fuck me.” 

He laughs as he moves back to where she is on the counter, “You good here?” 

She hums, wrapping one leg around his ass, the other coming up to rest on his chest, opening herself up for him. He lines himself up with her, rubbing the tip on his cock along her entrance, feeling how ready for him she is, before pushing himself inside her. He stills for a moment once he’s reached the hilt, already feeling her fluttering around him. Her body surrounds him, tight and warm and it’s one of his favourite places in the world to be. Wrapped up around and inside of her. 

She pushes against him with the leg draped over his chest and he gets the message to begin to move inside of her. They find a rhythm together, like always. The angle that she is creating with her leg up on his chest, folding itself against her body as he leans in to kiss her, to bury his face in her neck, is deep and perfect. He knows neither of them will last long like this and he picks up the pace, reaching between their bodies to press his thumb down on her clit. 

They are both panting now and she is letting out a string of expletives tied together by his name. It only takes three more thrusts before she is coming, her inner walls contract around him, pulling him further in and then he’s coming too. A few more thrusts to ride out their releases and he collapses on her, she wraps her arms around him, holding him close as their breathing and heart rates settle into a synchronized rhythm. 

He can hear the chime of the doorbell and groans dramatically as he extracts himself from her embrace. He quickly wipes himself off with the dish towel hanging off the handle of the stove before tossing it to Tess, who appears either unable or unwilling to move from where she is still reclined on the island.

“That’d be dinner,” she says with a smirk, “right on time.” 

He starts to make his way out of the kitchen when a bout of her hysterical laughter, the laughter that fills even the coldest room with warmth, mirth bouncing and echoing off the walls, stops him. He turns to looks at her and she struggles to catch her breath as the doorbell chimes for the second time. 

“Babe, I love you, but we already pre-tipped the delivery driver, so could you please put on some pants?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
